


Owlman

by Aelia_Aeldyne



Series: Midnight writings [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27957362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelia_Aeldyne/pseuds/Aelia_Aeldyne
Series: Midnight writings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2181489





	Owlman

All life had been smothered by the pristine whiteness of snow. The forest was a corpse, countless trees bereft of leaves, brown husks and grey silhouettes standing silently in an unending vigil over those ancient grounds. No footprint marred the white shroud that laid over the ground, the forest wildlife having wisely chosen to huddle away from the cold in its nests, its warrens and its burrows. The only noises breaking the silence were the muted creaking of old branches that a seldom-coming wind shook.

Days and nights came and went in silence, weeks unfolding into months that themselves grew into years. Snow fell and melted with the passing of time, leaves grew and fell and crumbled into soil, the forest’s hue cycling through red and green and white like the heartbeat of seasons. Foxes leapt between the bushes, wolves prowled in the undergrowth and kites circled above the foliage, preying on the lesser beasts that dwelt in the woods. Life went on and on, and the forest was untroubled.

Winter came again, cloaking the woods in stillness once more. But this year was different. Tension hung in the air like an ugly storm front and the wintry gale bore a scent of ash and carrion through the groves.

Yael relished that fragrance of cinder and corpse. This unmistakable musk meant he was close to his goal. His brother’s grave would be laying in the depth of the woods, the seals ajar enough to let the unique mark of his power trickle through and infest the area. It had been so long since Yael had smelled this odour, and it drew a content sigh out of him.

He knew the priests in the southern regions of the realm would scream to the Lord if they knew what he wanted to do with the tomb. Oh, they would surely be horrified by his own existence as well, having convinced themselves that demons were only things of myth, to be used to indoctrinate the masses; necromancy however held a special place amidst all horrors in the human heart.

Their god was dead and so was his, but the world itself would shudder at such a desecration. They would feel it. They would dread in their warm places and their cold bitter hearts. It had been so long since a demon showed themselves to the world; most of Yael’s kindred had chosen reclusion or integration, forsaking glory for survival and letting humans claim the ruins of their past splendour. Now demons lived like humans among humans, huddling together once in a red moon under veil of secrecy, having forgone even the strength to think of uprising and contemplating only the next year.

It had been too long, and Yael was sick of it. He’d carried the burden alone for decades, inheriting boons and curses and the tragedy of their people from the previous Keeper. He was the only one who still cared about who demons had been and could be again. He had struggled, he had wept. Most of all, he had raged; not against kin, because he understood that mediocrity was the best option if one had the choice between that and a short-lived instant of radiance. He had hated himself for being so weak that he could not restore the glory of his people.

Now, though…

Expectations, dreams of grandeur reborn flared in his mind, thrumming in rhythm along with the thumping of his staff on the snowy soil. He could feel it under his talons. He was on the right path. Ancient cobblestones hiding neath the grime and the mud grimly clinked as the wooden tip pierced the dirt to hit them. The old road.

Forward he went, heart resolute and steady-beating.

The snow whisked itself away from before him, turned into silky strands of vapor by the heat his body was giving off. Yael cared no more for discretion. The claws of his hand rattled against the wood like a maddening nursery rhyme, and he felt his atrophied wings shudder back and forth – weakly as always, but stronger than they’d ever had – as eagerness and restlessness swelled within him. He forged ahead with inexorable energy, closing in on the old chapel.

The hour was nigh.

The ancient structure revealed itself to his gaze as the road came to a head at the edge of a grove. The shrine stood at the lowest point of a hollow, a ruin of stone adorned by a dreary crown of dead trees emerging from the rocky slopes. The chapel itself had fallen into disrepair, walls torn down by time and elements, the roof extant no more. Rather incongruously, the gate yet stood strong under its arch, the olden blackwood remaining whole and untarnished. It lent an eerie touch to this lugubrious scene, but also viscerally beckoned Yael to come forth and go past the wooden panel.

Winds roared between the trees, clashing in angry gales, indifferent to the demon traipsing through the woods. Finally they subsided, leaving only a slow breeze that softly died on the edge of the grove, rustling in Yael’s feathers like whispers of foreboding. He stalked forth until he reached the door. Around him, the mud was baking under the heat of his anticipation. All snow in the grove had evaporated, turned into ribbons of mist and sent flying far up in the sky. He pushed the door, heart thrumming in his chest.

At long last.


End file.
